Missing In Action
by Madman With a Pen
Summary: 007 has gone missing in action. MI6 are stumped, but the few leads they do have point in the direction of one man - Jim Moriarty. Luckily, Mycroft Holmes has strong connections with MI6 and believes he knows just the man for the job...
1. Chapter 1

The dim golden glow of the evening sun filtered through the tall slim windows, pushing past their glistening white drawn back curtains before falling on the smooth marble floor of the casino. Subdued chatter gave the air the slightest tingle of life and this low murmur of noise was punctuated every so often by the rolling of a roulette wheel or the soft sound of a deck of cards being shuffled. The scents of cigarette smoke, expensive alcohol and vibrant perfumes danced in the atmosphere, providing a luxurious assault on the senses.

The final stage of the evening's current poker game was drawing to its close. A woman in a slim scarlet dress with lipstick of the same colour, her long dark curls falling past her uncovered shoulders, placed her two cards face-up on the table. Two eights.

"Full house," announced the croupier. "Eights full of aces."

The man sat opposite her took hold of his own cards, his pale gaze never faltering against her deep brown eyes. His tuxedo was pristine, as if it had never before been worn, the smooth jacket and crisp white shirt clinging tightly to his body. His thin silk bow tie stood perfectly straight in the dead centre of his stiff collar.

He revealed his cards. Two aces.

"Four of a kind, aces," said the croupier. "The gentleman wins."

A small smile played across the luscious blood red lips of the woman who had just lost on this final hand. She rewarded the man sat opposite her, whose face still betrayed no sign of emotion, with a slight bow of her head as she conceded the game.

"Very well played."

The man gave a quick, sharp smirk as he got to his feet.

"Thank you," he said, before turning to the croupier and beckoning to the chips he had just won. "Have someone cash these."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, as you've won so much," said the woman in scarlet, joining the man as he left the table, "I suppose you can afford to buy me a drink?"

"Of course," said the man. He walked with a quick stride towards the bar, the woman gliding imperiously along at his side.

"I don't suppose you'd care to share your secret? At poker?"

"Every player has their tell," the man explained, stopping at the broad mahogany surface of the bar. "In poker you don't play the cards, you play the person sat across from you. If you can read them, you can read the game."

"Fascinating."

The barman walked over to where these two were stood, grinning at the man.

"What can I get you, sir?"

"Two dry martinis," he said. "Shaken not stirred."

"Right away," said the barman, busying himself with the preparation the drinks.

"An old favourite of mine," said the woman, sounding impressed.

"I'm sure it is."

"Master of cards and tastes – you _are_ good at reading people."

"I like to think so."

"So," she said as the drinks arrived, "do you have a name?"

The man took a single, long sip of his drink before placing the glass firmly back on the bar. He met the woman's gaze with a cool, firm look in his eyes before speaking in his deep, sharp, masculine tone.

"The name's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

James Bond woke up to a blinding white light burning before his face. He was faintly aware that his wrists and his ankles were bound, his arms stretched out above his body. His head was spinning, his senses slowly and groggily returning to him. There was a faint taste of blood in his mouth and a dull throbbing pain pounding against his chest and head.

The last conscious memory he had was of Jamaica, where he had commandeered a motorcycle. He remembered being chased. There had been a crash and then…

"Good evening, Mr Bond. Or should I say Double-O Seven?"

The white light was shut off. The room was plunged into almost total darkness. The only light that remained came from a single spotlight, imprisoning Bond in the luminous yellow cone it cast around him. Bond looked upwards, hoping to see exactly what he was suspended from. The trail of a metal chain rose up high above him, extending from his wrists, and vanishing into the light that shone down upon him. Looking down, he saw the chain that descended from his ankles was bolted to the floor about three feet below him.

"Don't worry," the voice continued, "you're quite secure. Wouldn't want you to fall now, would we?"

It was a soft voice, which seemed only to add to its sinister tone. Slightly high-pitched and with a light accent that Bond was fairly sure was Irish. He knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

"I never knew you cared, Mr Moriarty."

"Oh, of course I care," said James Moriarty, stepping forwards so that the faint golden glow of the spotlight picked out the very edges of his hollow grin and pristine suit. "You put up quite a fight. Really, your efforts should be rewarded. I'm genuinely impressed with you."

"You've got a funny way of showing it."

"Yeah…" said Moriarty, running his eyes over Bond's bound figure. "But you're a dangerous man, Mr Bond. Impressed as I am, I can't let you go. I just can't. It will almost be a shame to see you die – you have had such a glittering career! But then, you did pick the side of the angels."

"Even angels have their dark days – something you might want to be aware of when I get out of here," said Bond.

"Your persistence is rather incredible. And just a little bit… pathetic. Well, can't stand around chatting all day. Lots to be done, governments to remove. Goodnight, Mr Bond."

As he turned on his heel, walking away into the shadows, Moriarty clicked his fingers. Suddenly two men were approaching Bond, surrounding him. One of the men stood atop a stepladder that he had pulled into place. Together, they fastened packs of what Bond recognised to be plastic explosives to his injured and restrained body. A timer was strapped to his chest, with a ten minute digital readout flashing in crimson on its black screen.

"This isn't going to help you, Mr Moriarty," Bond called out.

"Oh, I'm feeling fairly sure it will."

Bond smirked, silently and secretly tugging against his chains, testing their strength. His cold blue eyes stared into the darkness, desperately searching for some sign of his concealed captor.

"Do you expect me to talk?"

"No, Mr Bond. I expect you to burn."

The footsteps of Moriarty and his two henchmen rang out through the cold metal chamber, until finally disappearing with the sound of a heavy door slamming shut. The only noise that remained was the quiet bleeping of the timer on Bond's chest, which started the instant the door had shut.

Nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds…


	3. Chapter 3

"You're going to tell me where James Bond is," Sherlock said as he fixed a hard stare on Tia, the woman he had met at the poker table. She simply sat, sipping her drink, her gaze fixed on some point beyond the bar and avoiding Sherlock's.

"I don't know who that is."

"Your breath says otherwise."

Now she turned to face the detective at her side.

"My breath?" she asked, incredulous.

"I bought you a vodka martini," Sherlock smiled at her – one of his cold, calculating smiles of victory. "You seemed surprised that I'd guessed you liked them, but your breath's carrying the distinct scent of a very particular martini mix – Gordon's gin, vodka and Lillet. If I'm right, three measures of the first, one of vodka and half of the Lillet. And do you know how I know those amounts? Because I know something about James Bond, the inventor of that drink."

"Bit of a weak presumption, Mr Holmes…"

"I'm not presuming anything, I'm going by facts. Now, obviously you've not seen him recently – he has been missing for two days – but he got you that drink and you've decided to order one for yourself since, so he must have left something of an impression. You obviously like to gamble and I've heard you were gambling with a man matching his description at that poker table a couple of nights ago. You were the last person anyone claims to have seen him with, so, please tell me, where is James Bond?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Holmes," Tia said stiffly. She rose swiftly from her seat and quickly walked away from the bar. Sherlock did not follow her. Instead he let her escape by a few paces before calling after her.

"I'm sure MI6 would be very grateful to receive an employee of James Moriarty."

Tia froze. She turned back to Sherlock, her eyes suddenly wide with fear.

"You want to know where James Bond is?"

* * *

The steady electronic heartbeat of the timer on Bond's chest continued to ring out. He struggled against the chains that bound him but to no avail. The metal shackles bit stubbornly into his skin, their once cold touch growing steadily warmer in the heat of the spotlight.

Bond stopped struggling. He had an idea.

One of the explosive packs fastened to him was strapped to his right shoulder and, with his arms stretched upwards by the chains, it was within reach of his mouth. Turning his head to the side, Bond gripped the small pack with his teeth. He bit down onto it, hard, and tugged against it. With a few sharp jolts of his head, the pack eventually snapped free from the jacket. Bond did not loosen his jaws, not prepared to let it fall in the wrong place.

Looking down himself, he dropped the small explosive. It landed a little unsteadily on his shoes. With a precise and exactly-timed movement, he snapped his feet apart, allowing the pack to fall to the base of the chain that was connected to his ankles. He would have to move fast.

Fighting against the restraint on his legs as much as he could, Bond started to strike his ankles against each other. He moved with fast, sharp kicks. The sound of the shackles scraping against one another rang out like a shrill metal scream through the chamber. Bond did not stop.

The tiniest of sparks fluttered free from the shackles. Another kick, harder. Another spark, bigger. And again. This third time, a single spark landed on the plastic explosive waiting below. It would not be enough to cause an explosion – only the detonator could achieve that with plastic explosive – but if Bond was lucky…

Ignition. The small packet beneath him started to burn as he had hoped it would. Tendrils of toxic fumes rose from amongst the flames – there was nothing Bond could do about that, but it had been a choice between taking his chances with the fumes or being blown to bits.

The fire licked at the chain that secured Bond to the floor. A soft orange glow slowly crept across the metal as it gave in to the heat. This was taking too long. There were less than five minutes left on the digital timer. Bond pulled fiercely against the chain on his ankles, holding his breath against the gas that was starting to choke the air. His leg muscles tensed, pushing out against his skin and the shackles bit with even more aggression into him.

His legs pulled on the heated chain. Kept pulling as the timer on his chest warned of his imminent demise. He had one hope.

The chain snapped.

Only his arms were trapped now and that gave him a little more freedom of movement. That was all he needed. Bond forced his body into a swing, landing on top of the nearby stepladder one of Moriarty's men had used to fasten the explosives to him. From here, fully aware of the beeping of the timer, he jumped up into the air, leaping as high as he could…

He grabbed the chain. He had managed to take hold of a higher point on the steel rope that was connected to his wrists, so that his arms were no longer forced out above his head. With the small movements his shackles allowed him, he began pulling himself up the chain. Every upwards step was met with a small beep from the timer. Bond knew he wouldn't be able to reach whatever far off point the chain was fastened to, but he didn't need to.

In under a minute, he had reached the iron bars running across the room, from which the spotlight was suspended. The chain continued upwards to somewhere on the darkened ceiling, but Bond could now use this lighting rig as a seat and, though his wrists were still shackled, his arms were free to move. He grabbed the explosive-covered jacket and, pulling violently at it, he tore the garment apart, freeing himself from it before throwing it to the floor below.

With his hands still bound together, he reached inside his own torn jacket and retrieved the car key that was resting in his pocket. _A key that will open any lock_, Q had told him. It had better do. Bond held the black pad of the key's handle to the lock on one of his shackles and pressed down on the Aston Martin logo that was emblazoned upon it. There was a second's high-pitched screech from the key and then the metal relinquished its grip on Bond's arm. He quickly undid the second shackle, dropped the key back into his pocket and took hold of the chain he had just released himself from.

He was done. He had freed himself. Now he just had to wait…

Somewhere below him, the timer whispered its final bleeps. It stopped with a low whine.

Bond held tightly to the chain. He wrapped it around his hands.

The explosion illuminated the whole room. Terrifying sound filled the air, tearing at Bond's ears. The shockwave of the blast threatened to throw Bond from where he was sat atop the lighting rig and he clutched as best he could with his chain-filled hands to the railing.

As soon as the explosion had passed, leaving smoke and clusters of flame in its place, Bond jumped. He clamped his fingers onto the chain coiled around his palms. The length of it that had imprisoned him now acted as his safety rope while he sailed downwards through the smoke-ridden air.

He came to a jarring stop as the length of chain ran out, the metal lifeline rattling above him and leaving him in a slight swing in practically the same position he had started in. Once the chain had become still, Bond pulled his hands free and dropped neatly to the floor. With a brisk shrug of his shoulders and a light tug, he straightened his jacket before marching through walls of smoke to the door that had just been blown from its hinges.

Bond flattened his back against the wall, waiting by the side of the open doorway. It was only a few seconds until two armed guards charged into the room, guns at the ready. Bond moved quickly. He seized the first man, grabbing him with both arms and kicking him sharply in the back of the legs. As he stumbled, Bond prised free the rifle he was holding. The second man was raising his weapon, but not fast enough. Bond unleashed a quick burst of gunfire, cutting the man down before he could pull his trigger. Knocking the unarmed man out with the butt of the rifle, Bond left him unconscious.

He moved with a swift step from the chamber and out into the dank, dark corridors that waited beyond. He covered the distance in long, precise strides, the rifle held ready in his hands.

There had been no need for the weapon – Bond soon covered the lengths of corridors and had found a locked door. There was no knowing where it would lead, but the hint of cool air that crept past its edges suggested it would take him outside. He slammed the rifle butt into the door's lock and it swung obediently open.

As it did so, an alarm rang out.

Bond quickly looked down the surrounding corridors, looking for any sign of response to the blaring siren. He could hear footsteps but not see the source. Not waiting for his pursuers to turn up, Bond ran out of the door onto the concrete bridge that waited on the other side, beneath the night sky.

He thundered down the bridge, propelled by the sudden rush of adrenaline that had consumed his body. Gunshots bellowed out behind him, tearing into the concrete surface that he ran across. Bond turned on his heel, let off a quick round of gunfire at his attackers – just enough to force them back for a few seconds – and then pushed himself further down the bridge.

A road ran below the bridge and Bond stopped as soon as he was stood directly over this stretch of tarmac. He had seen the approaching lorry. Turning back to the doorway, which was now far behind him, he resumed his fire at the regrouping guards. One had left the safety of the hulking concrete building. Bad move. Bond shot him down and his body dropped over the edge of the bridge.

The lorry, approaching from the left, was coming close. Bond did not give up his attack, maintaining fire as he ran to the right. It was only as he reached the shallow concrete wall that he ceased fire and put all his efforts into his movement.

With one step he was on the wall. And with the next he had jumped over it.

He fell downwards and hit the roof of the vehicle's trailer just as it passed the bridge. By the time the guards had bustled out of the doorway, he was beyond their range.

An hour later, James Bond walked into a small phone box and called a government number.

"Hello? This is 007, speaking on an open line. Get me Q." A pause. A quick bout of speech from the other end and then:

"Q, I'm going to need you to send the car and a replacement weapon to Berlin."


	4. Chapter 4

"Berlin?" John Watson repeated the word for the third time, even if it was a little too late for doubts now – he was sat aboard a plane heading for Berlin Schönefeld Airport.

"Yes, John, Berlin," Sherlock assured him.

"Look, Sherlock, I know you're usually very good at this stuff…" Sherlock raised a cynical eyebrow. John continued, undeterred. "But we are dealing with professional spies here. How can you be so sure he is actually in Berlin?"

"The woman who told me where James Bond is was in no way a professional spy, for a start," Sherlock stated. "She works for Moriarty, more someone who watches the lines of communication than actually gets involved. And, although she could have lied, she's certainly had a lot of contact with Berlin recently, so the odds are it is involved in whatever Moriarty's planning."

"How do you know she's had a lot of contact with Berlin?"

"Her dress was distinctively German, tailored specifically for her and nearly brand new. She must have bought it in person, recently. And she's had a lot of phone calls from German numbers."

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sleek, black mobile phone. John laughed a little and Sherlock found himself joining in.

"Took it from right under her nose."

They leaned back in the less-than-comfortable seats they had been allocated and tried to get some rest for the remainder of the flight.

* * *

Several hours later, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were overcoming their tiredness and the sensation of jetlag as they made their way through the airport. It was as the exit to the building came into view that Sherlock's phone began ringing. He dug it out of his pocket and glanced quickly at the screen before answering.

"Hello, Mycroft… what's that? He's in Berlin? Oh, really?"

He gave John an I-told-you-so look. In return, John gave him a look that said _I want to punch you in the face, so much_.

There was a pause as Sherlock listened to his older brother's instructions. Meanwhile, John's eye was caught by another individual in the airport. Sherlock followed his gaze. The man he was looking at was one they had both seen before, in a photograph handed to them by Mycroft when they had accepted this case (or mission, as he had insisted on calling it). The man's oily mess of dark hair, heavy brow and bony jawline were unmistakable. He was a bomb expert and one of Moriarty's known contacts.

"Yes," Sherlock said into the phone. "I understand." He hung up.

"What was that about?" asked John.

"Bond's contacted MI6. They know where he is and Mycroft's called us off."

"Called us off?"

"Says we're not needed on the case anymore, technically we shouldn't be involved anyway, and we are to head straight back to London immediately."

"But that's Moriarty's bomb expert, here in Berlin," John hissed at Sherlock.

"I know," said Sherlock. "But orders are orders… aren't they?"

"Absolutely… shall we start following him?"

"My thoughts exactly!"

The two grinned at each other and turned their attention back to Moriarty's man. He wasn't on the move. Instead he was stood rather still, glancing at a slow, leisurely pace around the airport. It was as if he was waiting for something.

"Hang on," said John, a thought occurring to him, "does this mean you've failed?"

"What?"

"You know what I mean. Have you failed the case? They found Bond before you could."

"_He_ got in touch with _them_," Sherlock said in a flat, assertive tone.

"And you didn't manage to find him before he did. So you failed, Sherlock!"

"I didn't fail, John, because MI6 didn't find him – he managed to get out of whatever circumstances were stopping him from reaching them. That doesn't show a lack of ability on my part, it just shows our friend Mr Bond is very good at getting out of dangerous situations."

They were both suddenly aware of the presence of one of the airport's security guards. He was a tall, barrel-chested man, who spoke excellent English with only a hint of his German accent.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but could you follow me?"

They exchanged a concerned glance upon hearing the man's words and then followed him through the bustling arrivals lounge, John's gaze still half-lingering on Moriarty's agent.

* * *

Bond met his own icy blue gaze in the mirror as he finished shaving, placing his razor gently down on the ornate countertop that surrounded the sink. He ran his fingers over the smooth, firm skin of his solid jawline. That made two close shaves since arriving in Germany.

He had just enjoyed a hot bath followed by a cold shower and now, dressed only in one of the hotel's towels, he walked from the en suite bathroom into the luxurious bedroom. The torn and bloodied clothes he had woken up wearing in Moriarty's facility lay crumpled on the floor and a sleek black suit cover lay waiting for him on the bed, sent by his tailor as he had requested. Bond unzipped the waterproof sheath, revealing the pristine charcoal grey suit that lay within it. There was also a fresh white shirt and a navy blue tie. Bond quickly dressed, but left the tie and the jacket aside as he wandered over to the metallic black case that had been placed atop the dressing table. It opened with a sharp 'click'.

Inside, nestled in a padded casing, was a Walther P99 9mm sidearm, along with a silencer and a shoulder holster. Bond slipped the holster over his shirt, loaded the weapon and slid it firmly into place a few inches beneath his left armpit. He then put on the tie, securing it with a tight knot that hugged at his collar, and pulled on the jacket, which he fastened only by its top button. Before he left the room, Bond placed the emptied black case and his old clothes on the bed, with a note saying they may be taken away. After doing so he turned sharply on his heel, walked over to the door, snatched up the room key and let himself out.

A few minutes later he was in the bustling streets that lay before the majestic figure of the Brandenburg Gate. A variety of colourful street performers were attracting small crowds in the central plaza and clusters of tourists stood in the streets, gathered around maps and pamphlets. It was as Bond drank in the busy scene before him that a short, scrawny woman with wrinkled skin and a scratchy voice, wrapped in a black shawl, ran up to him with surprising speed. She was bawling practically indecipherable words, but Bond got the general gist of it – she was asking for money, playing the beggar and, quite frankly, she was throwing off the strong stench of a fraud. Bond waved her aside as she made a ridiculous performance of throwing out her arms and trying to cry, though she seemed incapable of producing any actual tears. He tried to walk away, but the woman was insistent upon following him – obviously his expensive suit marked him out as a prime target for pickpockets and beggars.

"Listen," he said, turning to the old woman, "I'm not giving you any money. You don't need it, you're not homeless and you're not living in poverty – you're a liar and a fraud, now go and con someone else."

With that blunt explanation, he once again began to walk away. She was more persistent than he had expected. Once again the woman leapt in front of him, her arms outstretched as she made some half-English, half-furious, entirely false plea for the contents of Bond's wallet. Anyone else may have given in at this point and some may even have started to believe her, but Bond had been in his particular business for long enough to see through a fraud, and today he was not in a mood relenting enough to give in to one. He was about to once again tell the woman to leave him alone, when suddenly she fell silent.

Her face went blank and, her arms suddenly dropping back to her sides, she fell forwards. Bond caught her. On her back, he saw, there was a neat bullet hole outlined with blood. Bond looked up and spotted, in one of the top floor windows of the bank building beside the Brandenburg Gate, a figure hurrying out of sight, carrying what looked like a weapon. A sniper. And the bullet must have been meant for Bond.

He hurriedly moved over to the tables arranged outside one of the plaza's restaurants. None of them were free, but he placed the old woman's body in an empty seat next to a middle-aged couple.

"Sorry," he said, "but do you mind if my friend sits here? Hard day's work is getting a little too much for her – she's dead to the world."

Leaving her there, he quickly turned back to the bank the sniper had been in and broke into a sudden run. He bolted down the street, pushing past people who weren't quick enough to get out of his way. The American Embassy flashed past at his side – whoever had tried the attack had a bloody nerve attempting it here. Bond's feet almost skidded to a halt as he came to the bank's door. Bursting through it, knocking it open with a heavy shove, he ran into the building and headed for the staircase. His hand dived into his jacket, seizing the Walther and tearing it free from the holster. There were gasps of shock and panicked screams as people saw the weapon. Bond carried on, undeterred. He moved swiftly up the steps from the smart lobby area, taking them two at a time, gun held out ready in front of him.

He rounded a corner. A man dressed entirely in black, with a thick coat, emerged from a door just ahead. Bond paused as the figure looked down at him. The man tore up the stairs in a desperate dash to get away. That was all the confirmation Bond needed. He ran after him, trigger-finger ready to fire at a moment's notice.

He rounded a corner, only to be met by gunfire. Three shots bellowed out down the staircase. Ducking back around the corner, Bond raised his gun at his side. There could be no doubt this man was the sniper now.

Bond waited. Then he ran. He covered the last flight of stairs in fast, furious strides, reaching the top floor in a few short seconds. He turned just in time to see his target jump through a window at the end of the corridor. With an agitated sigh, Bond holstered his weapon, ran after him and dived through the framed opening. He landed a few feet from the man he was chasing on the slanting rooftop of the next building. It took Bond a moment to realise the building they were on was, in fact, one of the gatehouses of the Brandenburg Gate.

Looking up, he saw the man taking aim with a handgun. Bond flung out his arm, knocking the man's weapon hand aside. He followed this move with a sudden punch to the jaw. As the man stumbled backwards, Bond drew his own weapon and took aim.

"Who do you work for?" he shouted. "Why are you in Germany?"

His opponent had recovered. Swinging his gun forwards, the man fired twice. Bond dropped as soon as he saw the weapon move, sliding down the slanted roof, digging his heels desperately into the flat tiles – he just managed to stop himself at the rooftop's edge. Turning his gaze back, he saw his attacker, outlined by the main body of the Gate, aiming at him.

Bond, still clutching the Walther, opened fire on the man. Before he had even pulled the trigger, his target had ducked out of the way. The bullet just chipped the edge of the roof before sailing into empty air. Scrambling back to his feet, Bond holstered his weapon and ran after the assassin. The man was just over the other side of the roof's raised peak and was running straight for the end of the gatehouse. Bond ran parallel to him, knowing there was no way either of them would be able to survive a jump over the edge. What was this bastard thinking?

Bond tore his attention away from the man to look ahead. He saw it. A good few feet from the building they were on there stood a towering white flagpole.

As they reached the end of the rooftop, it started to slant away in front of them, rather than to the sides. There were only a few feet left to go until there was no more rooftop left. Without stopping, Bond watched as the man to his side powered down this final slope and leapt through the air when he reached its end. There were a few feet of free-fall before he managed to grab onto the flagpole. As soon as he had a hold on it, he hugged it close to himself and slid quickly to the ground.

Bond couldn't afford to slow down. He didn't have the time to think about this. He pushed himself harder, running faster, his breath tearing violently through his lips. He reached the end of the rooftop. One way out.

He jumped. The air cascaded past him, fought against the hard swipes he made with his arms in an attempt to direct himself. His momentum carried him forwards, but he was still falling downward as well. He could see the approaching pole. He had one chance and he could not afford the slightest mistake.

He flung out his arms.

His palms hit the pole and he wrapped his fingers around it. Then, his grip still not perfect, he pulled hard on the metallic surface in his hands and found himself slamming into it. There was a painful blow that reverberated through his ribcage as he hit. As soon as he did so, he wrapped his arms around the slim flagpole and used it as a lifeline as he dropped towards the pavement below. Reaching the ground, he tightened his hold, slowing himself down a little, before jumping the final few feet.

Landing on the pavement amidst a crowd of stunned onlookers, Bond drew himself up, straightened his tie and started to cast his gaze across his new surroundings, trying to catch a glimpse of the assassin. When he looked back to the gatehouse they had just fallen from, he saw the flurry of movement he was searching for. The man was running behind one of the many columns that supported the structure, seeking cover.

Bond ran in the direction the figure had vanished, withdrawing his Walther. Stepping swiftly into the cluster of mighty stone pillars, he brandished the gun before him. The man was no longer stood behind the first column.

His eyes and his weapon moving as one, Bond searched the coils of shaded space. A footstep rang out to his side. He turned in time to see his target, gun held out. There was an echoing crash of gunfire as Bond ducked behind the nearest column.

Silence.

Peering around the column's edge, Bond checked the coast was clear. No sign of the gunman. Moving slowly, he stepped out from his hiding place and continued to survey the area. Too many hiding places. Too many columns offering themselves as cover. It would be too easy to escape. Bond had to move quickly, had to find his target.

In a solid, stealthy stride, he moved between the pillars that threw a cloak of shadows over the ground. He heard something. The slightest hint of movement. Bond turned in its direction, quickly stepping between two pillars, into the next stretch of open space. The assassin stood there, a few feet away, suddenly frozen like a rabbit caught in headlights. Weapon already raised, Bond fired, catching the man in the arm. With a distorted bellow of agony, the assassin flung himself behind a nearby column. Bond broke into a run, tearing down the path to the man's hiding place. As soon as he came within range, the man leapt out, gun held forwards. Bond was ready.

He stepped quickly aside, moving out of the line of fire, and grabbed onto the man's gun arm, wrapping his own around it. Trapping it completely, Bond tugged hard, bending the man's arm back. There was a dull 'crack'. As the assassin dropped his weapon, Bond let go and swung his fist again into the man's jaw, drawing blood.

Without a second's pause, Bond clamped one hand on the scruff of the man's neck and, with the other hand, held the Walther to his head.

"One last chance," said Bond, "do you work for James Moriarty?"

Nothing.

Bond tried again.

"Tell me what you're doing in Germany!"

A bloodied grin spread across the man's features.

"I'm only here for one reason, Mr Bond."

"And what's that?"

"To kill you."

The man swung his leg out, slamming his foot into Bond's shin. The sudden pang of pain knocked Bond off-guard. His captive took the chance, throwing Bond off of him. He dived for his own discarded weapon, snatching it up from the ground and turning on the British agent. Bond was already aiming his own gun at him.

"Drop the weapon and tell me what Moriarty's planning."

"I'll never talk, Bond!"

A gunshot echoed out through the maze of columns.

The small trail of smoke was rising from the barrel of Bond's Walther P99.

"No," said Bond. "You won't."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock and John entered the small grey-walled room the security guard had led them to. The guard waited outside and they entered the office on their own, to find themselves staring at the back of a man in a blue airport uniform. He was sat at a desk, going through piles of paperwork and didn't turn to face the two men who had just entered his office as he spoke.

"Well, well, well… looks like we've got some unwanted visitors."

The voice was definitely not German. Sherlock recognised the high Irish accent instantly.

"You!"

Jim Moriarty rose slowly from his seat and turned to face Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. A manic grin was etched onto his features.

"Moriarty…" The word escaped as a whisper from John's lips.

"Hello boys!"

In a second Sherlock had thrown himself at the man, and had him against the thin office wall, held by the scruff of his neck.

"What are you doing here?!"

"Ooh, I do like it when you play rough," Moriarty laughed through his unfaltering grin.

"Tell me why you're here," Sherlock persisted.

"Keeping you busy while my friends attend to Mr Bond. I've thought of everything, Sherlock, and now there's nothing you can do to stop me."

"Stop you from doing what?"

Moriarty's smile ebbed a little, the manic joy replaced by a challenging glare.

"Work it out, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock's gaze flickered across Moriarty's features, taking in every visual element of his opponent as his mind started to race. Every fact, every figure, every detail danced through his brilliant mind as he placed them into the intricate web Moriarty was weaving.

"You've been sourcing bomb makers from Jamaica – you had possibly the best in the business working for you. You send a bomb to Germany, taking control of airports with your own personnel. One of your men – another expert – collects the bomb in Berlin. Meanwhile, you capture a British secret agent who's been sent to investigate ever since your name ended up attached to this. You were ready for Bond, which means you were expecting him, which means you wanted to be found out by MI6."

Moriarty was grinning again.

"Go on…"

"You have the entire British Secret Service watching you, paying attention to what you do next. You're attempting to have their agent killed, which would only worsen your situation. But then there's the bomb… why? What's your target? Oh…" The answer suddenly hit Sherlock. "A bomb in Berlin, today."

"What's so important about today?" John asked, watching the whole exchange.

"There's a gathering of the German government. Practically every major politician, including the Chancellor, is going to be under one roof, all at the same time." His brow furrowed as he looked into Moriarty's eyes. "You're going to blow up the Reichstag."

"Yes… and?"

"And MI6 will be watching you do it… and they won't be able to pin it on you."

"What?!" John marched over to Sherlock's side, pointing angrily at Moriarty as he spoke. "They know he's behind this! They've been following him!"

"They've been chasing shadows, John. They knew he'd disappeared from the UK; they knew bomb experts, including one of his old employees, were being hired by a man who wouldn't identify, but they have no solid evidence."

"Germany's government goes up in smoke and there's not a thing the Germans or the British or any other government can do to punish me for it," said Moriarty. "But they're not the only ones watching."

"You're advertising." Sherlock almost sounded disgusted – a rare and somewhat terrifying feature in his usually emotionless voice. "Criminals across the world watching your every move, seeing the twisted genius of the man who can commit the crime of the century while being watched by two major nations and still walk away without so much as a scratch."

"My client gets what they want and I get the biggest publicity stunt I could ask for." Moriarty's eyes glistened with deranged joy. "Everybody's happy."

"Except Germany's politicians," snapped John. Sherlock ignored the remark.

"Your client? This isn't just you putting your name out there then, there is someone who wants the German government destroyed?"

"Consulting criminal – got to earn my living somehow."

"Who's employing you?"

"Sorry," said Moriarty, faking a frown, "client confidentiality."

"I'm not going to let you do this."

"I don't see any way you can stop me, Sherlock. I've got you caught up in this airport like suspected terrorists while one of my men is walking around freely with the bomb and a whole host of others are following Mr Bond, who will soon be lying dead in a gutter." He laughed at his own words. "Your move."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his grip tightening on Moriarty's collar. Without turning from the consultant criminal, he spoke three words very quietly to John.

"Just like Sumatra."

Sherlock let go. Ducking aside, he gave John a clear run to hurl a punch squarely into Moriarty's still-grinning jaw. The criminal dropped to the floor of the office as John turned to Sherlock.

"Now what?"

"Now we run. We've got a train to catch and a government to save."

Sherlock spun on his heel, bolting out of the office door, John close behind him. They thundered through the arrivals lounge, ignoring and outrunning the suddenly alarmed security guards. The train station was not far from the airport and it would take them almost the whole way to the Reichstag.

Bursting out of the airport doors and into the fresh outside air, they cast their gaze over their new surroundings. The entrance to the train station lay a short distance ahead, but before they could reach it the barrel-chested security guard who had taken them to Moriarty had barged through the doors behind them. He withdrew a gun from his belt and took aim on Sherlock and John.

"You've got to be kidding…"John muttered, clapping his eyes on the guard and putting his hands up.

"One of Moriarty's men," muttered Sherlock.

"No point putting your hands up, boys. Boss was very clear – you're to be stopped under any circumstances."

There was a gunshot.

Sherlock and John stayed standing. The security guard's stance faltered a little. Then he collapsed. Behind his motionless body, holding a Walther P99 in his outstretched hand, was James Bond.

"Mr Holmes. Doctor Watson."

"Mr Bond, I presume," said Sherlock, running over to the sharp-suited man.

"I heard you'd been sent in to look for me. Thought you would have been called off by now."

"We were," said Sherlock. "Yet here we are."

Bond gave a half-grin as he holstered his weapon.

"You got anything useful for me?"

"James Moriarty's lying unconscious in the airport and one of his men is on the way to the Reichstag with a bomb to murder the government."

"Well then," said Bond, "we'd better get moving."

"My thoughts exactly. Train station's just ahead, I'd imagine that's the route Moriarty's man took."

"Doctor Watson," said Bond, "you take the train, keep an eye out for this man."

"Sure. What about you two?"

"I've got my own means of transport. Mr Holmes…"

As John ran for the station, Bond led Sherlock through the airport car park. They came to a halt where a shining silver Aston Martin Vanquish was sat majestically waiting for them. With a press of the key, Bond unlocked the car, swung open the driver's door and turned to face the detective.

"Well, it is nice to know where our government's money's going," said Sherlock.

Bond nodded at the passenger side of the car.

"Get in."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Sorry it's been so long since I updated! I've had exams and other projects demanding my attention. And this chapter took a while to write. I promise I'll get this one wrapped up soon now!**

* * *

The sleek metal beast thundered down the roads, the roar of its engine slicing through the rumble of traffic as Bond slammed his foot harder on the accelerator. The Aston wove its way through the maze of vehicles, overtaking almost every other car on the road in the desperate race to the Reichstag.

"You know," said Sherlock, "it might be useful if we were still alive at the end of this journey."

Bond shot an icy glare at his travelling companion before tapping a few icons on the small touchscreen on the dashboard. The option to activate the ejector seat flashed into being.

"Are you going to complain the whole way?"

"No sir," muttered Sherlock.

Bond closed the ejector seat screen and placed both hands firmly on the wheel, which he slid through his grip with the precise touch of a master of his art. The car responded quickly and powerfully, turning as Bond commanded and abandoning the crowded street they had been in for a wider, more open road. In response to the new terrain, Bond shifted the car up a gear with an almost aggressive tug of the gearstick. The machine bellowed like an untamed animal as its tyres tore at the road and it found a new burst of speed. Their surroundings passed them in a blur of colour and motion, all the while Bond's cold blue-grey eyes locked on the road ahead, his mind fixed on his ultimate objective.

"Why does nobody seem to have a problem with you driving like a complete maniac?" Sherlock hissed.

"They're Germans," was Bond's stout reply.

In a matter of minutes the Aston Martin was screeching to a sudden halt outside the imperious figure of the Reichstag. The building towered above them, its face embellished with mighty pillars, rows of windows peering out from its sides and at the top, between its many extravagant towers, it was crowned by a vast glass dome.

Leaving the car parked at the roadside, Bond sprinted across the expanse of grass outside the Reichstag, Sherlock running alongside him. Bond quickly covered the rows of steps leading to the front doors as Sherlock pulled out his phone, tapped in a number and brought it to his ear.

"John? Do you know where that bomber is?"

"Sherlock, he's in the Reichstag, in the dome, I'm here now. What about you?"

"We've just arrived."

"Well you're going to have a hell of a long wait getting through the security checks."

Sherlock cast his gaze back to the small white building visitors were expected to queue through to get into the Reichstag.

"I don't think Mr Bond's too bothered about security checks."

* * *

John had spotted him in the train station. As soon as he'd recognised Moriarty's agent he had been following him through the station and the streets up to the Reichstag building. He had watched as the man had shown some official card to the guards at the security checks and they had allowed him past the metal detectors. Moriarty's influence seemed to know no bounds.

The dome atop the Reichstag was always open to members of the public and it was this impressive structure that Moriarty's bomber had gone to. Shimmering glass panes made up the walls of the dome, which were adorned with spiralling walkways up to a central platform at the top. In the centre of the dome there stood an imposing funnel-shaped tower made up of mirrored panels.

John had watched as the man he was pursuing started up the walkways towards the top of the dome. He followed from a distance, receiving Sherlock's call as he made his way up. He hoped Bond had some way of getting them into the building, because this was a centre of government – security was tight.

The platform at the top of the dome housed very little, other than a better view of the hole in the roof and the steel top of the long chute that widened, beneath the platform, to form the towering structure John had seen from below. The area was full of tourists, no doubt all drawn here on this day by the important meeting that was taking place below.

Moriarty's agent stopped next to this wide metal chute, which stood just about taller than a man, and slipped his bag off his back, peering in at its contents. John couldn't sit back and let this go on any longer. He pushed past a few bystanders and walked over to the bomber.

"Excuse me, could I have a word with you?"

"Not right now," the man muttered, brushing John aside impatiently.

"It's quite important," said John.

"Not now!"

Time to play his last card.

"I'm here from MI6 and I'm a bit worried about your employer. Could I have a word with you, sir?"

The man's eyes widened.

"If you're telling the truth, I think it's best you leave, don't you?"

"Shall I call security?"

"Go ahead. They're with me."

John didn't have time to consider the statement. Suddenly the man had struck him, lashing out with his fist. The blow hit John square in the jaw, knocking him back. There were shocked gasps from onlookers, some starting to flee. John wasn't about to back down. He threw himself at the man, all his weight propelling his own punch, sending the bomber reeling.

More sounds of surprise and disgust from the crowd. More movement. More people getting away. The bomber didn't hit back. Instead, he thrust his hand into his jacket and pulled out a gun, aiming it directly at John. Before he could pull the trigger, John had dived out of the way. The gunshot blared out, echoing throughout the glass chamber. Everyone was running now, desperate to get out. The flurry of movement gave John his chance – he was hidden from the bomber, lost amongst the suddenly dynamic crowd. He leapt forwards, tackling the man to the ground, grabbing at his gun hand.

People were running all through the dome, all thundering towards the exit, but John was able to pick out two particular sets of heavy footsteps amongst the sudden rush of noise. Still pinning the bomber to the floor, he looked towards the edge of the platform and could just see, below, two security guards running up the walkways, pushing past the crowds.

With a sudden movement, the bomber hurled John aside and clambered back to his feet. John got back up too, fists held up, ready for another attack. The bomber raised his gun. Without thinking, acting on instinct alone, John swung his arm out, knocking the man's weapon aside and holding it out of the way. With his free hand, the bomber attempted another hit. John blocked it, grabbing that arm as well, locking him in a fierce grip with the bomber. The only sound from below now was the footsteps of the two sprinting security guards who were, apparently, Moriarty's men.

A gunshot sounded from one of the walkways. It was met with two more from further down. John looked over the side of the platform and saw James Bond striding into the room, right hand outstretched and clutching his Walther P99, Sherlock not far behind.

The distraction was enough for the bomber. With a swift, strong movement, he flung John to the side, sending him over the platform's barrier. It was only with a desperate flail of his arms that John was able to grab onto the railing, preventing him from falling, but leaving him hanging over the long drop to the dome's floor.

The bomber looked over the edge of the railing, glaring down at him.

"_Auf Wiedersehen_, Doctor Watson."

He aimed his gun over the side. But the following gunshot was not from him. Bond had fired, the metal whizz of the bullet just skimming the railing. The bomber ran back, ducking out of Bond's line of fire.

With a mighty heave, John pulled himself up and over the bar, landing in a heap back on the central platform. The bomber was half-hidden, sheltering behind the shimmering steel chute in the platform's centre. John drew himself up and ran at the chute, taking cover on the side nearest him, so that the broad metal surface separated him from the bomber.

A short distance below, on one of the intricately spiralling walkways, one of the security guards had come to a halt. His aim was on Bond, who was running across the floor of the dome in a dash for the walkway. Not slowing, Bond raised the Walther and opened fire. Three shots and the security guard fell, still breathing but pained, clutching at his arm. Bond leapt onto the broad circular walkway, sprinting along it, adrenaline driving his every step.

More gunshots blared out, the deafening noise crashing against the room's walls. Glass panels on the edge of the walkway shattered as the second security guard's bullets burst through them. Bond stopped, turned and dropped to one knee. He took aim over the barrier at the edge of the walkway and opened fire, the shots tearing past the mirrored central column to find their target on the far side of the vast glass chamber. With two shots, the guard fell. His body hit the barriers hard, toppling over them to crash against the floor below.

Bond was up again and running along the winding pathway, silently cursing at the length of the route. Far below him, Sherlock was starting up the other walkway, his footsteps echoing Bond's. High above, the bomber took his chance. Moriarty's last remaining agent flung his bag off his back, pulling free the black metal bomb within.

"Not so fast." The voice belonged to John Watson. The bomber didn't have time to look up before John landed his first punch. Blood streamed from the man's nose as he reeled back from the sudden impact. Before he could recover, John had him in a headlock, his arm's forming a vice-like clutch on his throat.

With a harsh grunt, the man flung John's arms aside and struck him with his elbow, sending him tumbling back. John fell, his ears ringing as his head hit the hard floor beneath. As he looked up, his vision starting to blur, he could just make out the gun that was aimed squarely at him. Then, suddenly, the bomber was on the ground.

Sherlock scrambled to his knees and struck the man he had just knocked down, hitting him with a punch that displayed surprising strength for his skinny figure. While the man was still down, Sherlock snatched the gun out of his hand, pocketing the weapon. Bond was there in seconds, his gun trained on the bomber.

"It's over," said Bond. "Tell Mr Moriarty it's time to stop showing off."

"You're right about one thing," the bomber groaned. "It is over. You must have seconds left by now."

Bond, Sherlock and John froze at once. Only now did they become aware of the soft beeping coming from the exposed bomb, which lay a few feet away.

"It's armed," hissed Sherlock.

"Yes, Mr Holmes! And no time to get it to safety."

Taking advantage of his opponents' momentary shock, the bomber flung Sherlock over, freeing himself of his grip. Before Bond could fire, the man had turned on him, hitting his arm hard enough to knock the Walther out of his hand. He followed the attack with a sharp kick to Bond's stomach, throwing him backwards.

Recovering his breath and drawing himself up, Bond lunged at the bomber, who went for him at the same moment. The two ended up locked in each other's grip, trying to wrestle one another to the ground.

Behind them, John was kneeling beside the bomb.

"I've worked with the bomb squad before – this looks familiar," he called out. "I think I might be able to-"

"Just turn the bloody bomb off!" Bond shouted back at him, before delivering a kick to the bomber's shins. The man stumbled, his grip loosening enough for Bond to throw him back. Moving quickly, Bond ran at Moriarty's bomber, knocking him across the jaw with a heavy punch. He landed another in the man's stomach before throwing his weight into a final attack, striking the bomber full in the chest with his elbow.

Bond's gaze shot over to Sherlock and John, who were knelt beside the now-opened bomb.

"Well?"

"Still active," John called back.

"How long have we got?"

"Thirty seconds."

"Can you shut it down?" asked Bond.

"I think so…"

An enraged cry broke the exchange. The bomber was back up, running at Bond, who was stood close to the platform's barriers. A strong enough impact now could send him falling over the edge.

Bond braced himself, his cold eyes fixed intently on the bomber's sudden charge. The man tried to slam full into him, but Bond made sure his arms took the impact, his body staying solidly in place. In a split-second he had grabbed hold of the bomber and, using his attacker's own momentum against him, hurled him over the edge of the platform. A long, bestial cry, ending with a brief thud was the last they heard from Moriarty's agent.

"I've done it!" John suddenly called out. "It's disarmed, I've stopped it!" He looked up with a triumphant grin on his features, which quickly grew a little bemused. "What happened to Moriarty's bomber?"

"The same thing that happens to any unpopular man in a government building," said Bond. His cold blue-grey eyes met John's puzzled stare. "He was overthrown."


	7. Chapter 7

"Well, a certain James Moriarty seems to have slipped through our fingers once again," said Mycroft Holmes, looking up from the files on his laptop's screen. "But you did manage to prevent the assassination of the entire German Government. I suppose that's worth something."

"Thank you, sir," said Bond. John was grinning a little behind him, whilst Sherlock looked entirely unimpressed. As always.

"You know, Mycroft, maybe you should take a break from congratulating others on their hard work and start putting in some of you own." Sherlock commented dryly.

Mycroft's voice suddenly grew very cold.

"Meaning what, Sherlock?"

"Meaning, this is not the first time you have been forced to sit back and watch Moriarty get away," said Sherlock, his tone just as cold as his brother's, if with a touch more aggression. "Maybe, brother dearest, you need to start pushing harder and digging further for your evidence before you put the lives of good men on the line to chase shadows for you."

John's eyes were suddenly fixed on Sherlock. It was not often his friend would show such emotion or such care for the lives of others. Sherlock did not meet his gaze, but instead held his icy stare against Mycroft.

"My, my, Sherlock. That's not a hint of sentiment, is it?" asked the older of the Holmes brothers.

"Not at all, Mycroft. I'm just growing ever so concerned that our government isn't doing its job properly. Maybe the secret service is just getting a little too trigger-happy in its old age."

Bond half-smirked. Mycroft didn't seem to appreciate the comment.

"You know, Sherlock, I could have you forcibly removed from the premises."

"No you couldn't."

"Oh. And why not?"

"Because we're already leaving," said Sherlock. "Come on, John. I'll expect the knighthoods in the post by morning."

Mycroft watched narrowly as his brother strode out of the room, followed by Doctor Watson. He hoped he would not soon have to rely on those two again. As soon as the door had closed behind them, he turned his attention back to James Bond.

"Dismissed, 007. We'll speak again in the morning."

Bond nodded and turned to the door. As he reached the threshold, he turned back to face his superior's broad oak desk.

"Did he call you Mycroft, sir?"

"Dismissed, 007," said Mycroft in a much firmer tone.

Bond grinned a little.

"I was starting to wonder what it stood for."


End file.
